


squeaky wheel

by halfmast



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmast/pseuds/halfmast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patterns are hard to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is two-parts. This chapter is set pre-series, less than a year after Monica's left. Chapter two is set post-S3 and should be up tomorrow (I stumbled on some spoilers today that fall in line with chapter two of this fic, so I'll be trying to post it before I watch the first episode of s4). Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

Fiona double-checks the windows, making sure they’re closed tight and that all the curtains are drawn, keeping out as much of the cold as they can before she turns the lights off downstairs. It's barely early November, but it’s fucking _cold_ already. She’s keeping everyone upstairs as much as she can; downstairs is colder she keeps telling them—even if the difference marginal.

 

They needed to pay the gas bill; and she almost had enough for it, just a few more days until her next pay check. Only problem being they’d shut the gas off _today_.

 

Fiona sighs a little as she climbs the steps, pulling her sweater around herself more tightly, zipping it up.

 

Debbie’s in the upstairs bathroom, brushing her teeth. “Carl said he brushed already, but he’s lying,” she tells Fiona around the toothbrush. Lip’s hoodie hanging off of her like a cloak.

 

Fiona nods, “’kay,” she acknowledges, bending down to pick up clothes scattered on the floor and dropping it down the shoot.

 

“Teeth, Carl,” she calls a beat later, sticking her head in the boys' room.

 

“I did,” he insists as he pulls one of Ian's sweatshirts over his head. It’s huge on him, hangs down to his knees, making him look four-years-old instead of almost seven.

 

“Car - ”

 

“I _did_ , Fio - ”

 

“In your imagination, maybe,” Lip cuts in from the top bunk, smiling down at the kid ruefully.

 

Carl sighs, shooting Lip a dark look.

 

“Just get it over with, bud,” Ian says wryly, sitting on his own bed in a long-sleeved shirt, “Taking you longer to argue about it,” he smiles, coughing a beat later.

 

“Go,” Fiona points, lifting her eyebrows at the little boy.

 

“Okay, okay,” Carl sighs, shuffling out of the room.

 

She rubs at his head fondly as he moves past her, then lifts her gaze to Ian, “That cough?” She asks, leaning her shoulder against the door jamb. He’s had it for a couple days, Liam’s been sniffling too; it’s the last thing they needs right now.

 

“Not bad.” Ian tilts his head, looking over at her, “Not getting worse or anything.”

 

She nods, searching his face for a moment. “Put a thicker sweater on,” she tells him, looking up at Lip next, “And you, you layered up?”

 

“Can hardly move,” he says, smirking at her the way he always does—like he knows something she doesn't.

 

“Good,” she nods, turning out of the room to check on Carl in the bathroom. She supervises his teeth-brushing, reminding him that tomorrow was his vocabulary test and reciting the words for him so he'd hear them one more time before bed.

 

He nods along with her, watching her in the mirror, and when he's finished and dried his face, she puts a hand to his shoulder, guides him back into the boys' room.

 

“Night,” she murmurs, smiling at him a little as she tucks him in, spreading an extra blanket over him.

 

“Is Dad gonna be home today?” Carl wonders around a yawn.

 

Fiona tucks the extra blanket in around him. “Probably not tonight, bud,” she says softly. Frank might stagger in around two in the morning, but the kids would all be asleep by then. “See’m in the morning, maybe though,” she smiles for him, smoothing a hand over his head. “Sleep tight,” she adds a little playfully.

 

“Story?” He blinks up at her, a hand escaping the covers to come out and latch onto her arm.

 

And Fiona pauses, it's late, she’s tired, she's freezing, she still has to change Liam into his pajamas—but Carl’s looking at her with sleepy, hopeful eyes, and he’s still just a little kid. She smiles a little again, nodding, “Alright - one story.”

 

She grabs the first storybook she finds in their mess of a hallway and sits on the edge of his bed, smiling a bit when he tucks his face against her leg, and reads it to him, her voice soft, low.

 

Lip turns the lights off when she's halfway through the third page and she startles, looking up at him.

 

“He's asleep,” Ian tells her from the other bed, coughing again. It’s rough, deep, like it’s coming from his chest and Fiona blots it out.

 

She looks down at Carl instead, sighing a little, bending down to put a kiss to one of his brows. She tucks the blankets in around him more securely before getting up, “Night,” she says very softly, careful of waking him; even though waking Carl after he's gone down requires ten minutes of solid shaking.

 

“Love you,” she adds over her shoulder when she's at the door, means all three of them.

 

Ian returns it quietly, an echoing _love you_ and Lip murmurs _me too_.

 

Fiona heads into the bathroom, brushes her own teeth and stares at herself in the mirror—it’s not that cold, she recites to herself, it would be warmer during the day and Liam wasn’t getting sick and Ian wasn’t already sick and she was getting paid in two days—it’d be okay.

 

Debbie's curled up on Fiona's bed with a sound-asleep Liam when Fiona walks into the room; both of them under a pile of sheets. She’s been sleeping in Fiona’s bed for awhile now. They haven't discussed it, likely wouldn't. Someday (probably soon) she’d go back to her room with Liam and even then, she knew neither of the would ever talk about it.

 

She looks up at Fiona when the older girl walks in, “I put his PJ’s on,” she says lowly of Liam, “And two sweaters. And socks.”

 

Fiona smiles faintly, “Thanks Debs,” she flicks the lights off before crawling under the covers and settling in behind Debbie, tugging the little girl into a hug, and finding Liam’s small arms in the dark. “It’ll be warmer in a couple days. Don’t worry.”

 

Debbie nods. “I’m not worried,” she murmurs, holding still while Fiona settles, snuggling against her.

 

The room is quiet then, dark, and Fiona waits for it, closing her eyes and holding perfectly still. It doesn’t come though, hadn’t come last night, or the night before—Debbie had stopped asking if their Mom was going to come home soon.

 

“Night, Debs,” Fiona whispers, brushing a kiss against the girl’s hair, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Debbie mumbles.

 

Fiona falls asleep after Debbie does, lies awake holding her baby sister and her baby brother until she feels the younger girl’s breathing even out, and then she blows out a slow breath and relaxes into sleep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fiona’s at the kitchen table when Lip walks into the room, her head bent over a mess off envelopes and bills, the calculator to one side. The little kids were all in bed; dinner eaten, homework finished, showers skipped (just for today) and stories read.

 

"Fiona - " he says carefully, feeling a little bit of dread. There’s only one light on, the kitchen dim, all the dishes washed (in cold water) and put away.

 

"Not now Lip..." she sighs, presses her fingernails against her cheek sharply, studying the numbers in front of them.

 

"Fi - "

 

"I need to figure this out okay?" She says with a little more bite than she means to. She’s getting paid tomorrow; they _had_ to pay the heat and hot water, but electricity would be nice too—so would food.

 

"Fiona," Lip's hand is on her arm now, pulling at her, “Ian’s coughing - ”

 

“I _know_ , Lip.” She was trying very hard not to think about it.

 

“Yeah, but now he has a _fever._ ”

 

“What?” She turns her head to look at him then, giving him her full attention for the first time. “Since when?”

 

Lip drops his hand from her arm, “I don’t know, he’s been upstairs since after dinner, remember?”

 

She did; she did remember that. He’d said he’d do his homework in his room and she’d let him. She trusted him to actually do it, not like Debbie and Carl - and even Lip sometimes. Ian always did what he said he’d do. He’d been asleep when she’d checked on them at bedtime, when she’d tucked Carl in.

 

“He’s fuckin’ shaking though,” Lip continues, shifting on his feet a little. “I woke’m up and he says he’s just cold, but - ”

 

“Shit,” Fiona breathes, getting to her feet quickly, heading for the steps, “Shit. _Shit_.”

 

Ian’s curled up on his side, facing the wall, when she gets to the boys’ room. 

 

Debbie’s standing by the bed, looking small and worried, watching him uncertainly. “Fiona...?” she says when the older girl walks in, looking at her with wide, brown eyes.

 

“It’s okay, Debs,” Fiona soothes automatically, “Get more blankets from my room okay?” She says encouragingly, smoothing the little girl’s soft hair, keeping her voice low so she doesn’t wake Carl.

 

Debbie nods a little, looking at Ian again for another beat before leaving the room quickly.

 

“Hey,” Fiona murmurs, bending down a little and rubbing at Ian’s arm to get his attention, “Look at me bud.”

 

He’s shivering, just like Lip had said, and when he doesn't immediately respond Fiona sits on the bed, carefully slipping an arm around him, tugging him onto his back so she can his face, “Ian,” she says softly, “Hey...”

 

Ian blinks at her slowly, lips pressed together tightly like he’s trying not to shake anymore, “Fiona...” he says after a beat, swallows hard, “Hey...”

 

She smoothes her fingers through his hair, brushing it back away from his face, “You have a fever,” she murmurs, keeping her hand there, against his forehead, feeling the heat of it.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers.

 

“Not your fault,” she whispers back, leaning down to press a little kiss to one of his brows. Ian ran fevers, high fevers, she _knew_ that; she should have been _watching_ for that, “You remember when it start?”

 

Ian shuts his eyes again, feeling shaky and cold, “I don- I felt... weird, this morning... think.”

 

“This _morning_ , Ian,” Fiona sighs. 

 

But it’s Lip she looks over at, Lip who’s standing by his own bed now, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Lip meets her gaze, “Didn’t think it was that serious.”

 

“S’not that serious,” Ian agrees, his voice a little shaky.

 

Fiona’s gaze darkens on Lip’s face though, eyes narrowing; but she can’t make any accusations, any demands—she hadn’t even noticed. “Get the thermometer, will ya?” She says instead.

 

“Couldn’t find it.”

 

“It’s in Liam’s dresser, top drawer. Under the clothes.”

 

Her gaze goes back to Ian when Lip moves out of the room.

 

“S’not that bad...” Ian mumbles, sighing quietly, turning towards her a little more, almost curling around her.

 

“We’ll see how bad...” she murmurs, smoothing his arm again. He’s shaking and she knows what that means—his temperature is going up, not down. “Go the ER if we have to.”

 

Ian opens his eyes a little, “ _Can’t_ do that,” he points out; and there’s a sliver of panic in his voice. “We can’t - ”

 

“We will if we have to,” she assures him.

 

“Fio - ”

 

“ _I’m_ the older sister here,” she says wryly, brushing fingers through his hair. “I win.”

 

He blows out a little breath. “M’ _thirteen_ now,” he points out, letting his eyes fall shut again.

 

“Talk to me about it when you’re eighteen.”

 

“Sixteen.” He counters, voice still a little shaky, but lips quirking in a smile.

 

“Seventeen,” she says quietly.

 

And he says, “Deal,” just as Debbie moves back into the room, her arms piled so high with blankets Fiona couldn’t see her face.

 

“Oh honey,” Fiona says, getting up to help her.

 

“I brought some of mine too.” She says, muffled through the fabric.

 

Fiona nods, “Thanks, Debs.”

 

“Can I get something else? What else?” The little girl asks, glancing at Ian quickly; his eyes are shut, fingers curling around the edge of a blanket.

 

Fiona thinks for a moment, “Something to drink—there should be some apple juice still,” she murmurs, “And something damp, a towel or something. Run it under the tap,” she says, “Not too cold.” She winces a little after she says it, all they had coming out of the tap lately was cold water. “I mean - ”

 

“It’s okay,” Debbie says firmly, “I’ll figure it out.”

 

Fiona turns her head in time to watch Debbie march determinedly out of the room, smiles faintly before she goes back to spreading the blankets over Ian. His eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to sleep; but his cheeks are flushed, arms stiff at his sides, and he’s gritting his teeth, like he’s trying to stop shaking. 

 

Fiona sits down again, touching her palm against his cheek, slipping an arm around him, "God Ian," she whispers.

 

“Wasn’t- wasn’t so cold before,” he tells her, brown eyes blinking up at her. “Just- just really... cold now.” 

 

“Fever’s spiking. You should’ve told me this morning you were feeling worse,” she murmurs, smoothing hair slowly. 

 

“Tried.” 

 

She frowns a little, “No you didn’t - ”

 

“ _Did_ ,” he insists, “Bu- but Liam was crying and- and Carl spilled the milk… remember?” He says, still shivering, turning his head a little to cough. 

 

Her hand pauses in his hair, listening to that cough and remember this morning, Ian at the counter like he was waiting for something. 

 

“You were all going to be late,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him; so she’d rushed them all out the door—and Ian had been waiting to tell her something. 

 

“I’m sorry, Ian,” she sighs a little.

 

“S’not your fault,” he says, smiling a little at her, echoing her words to him.

 

Fiona smiles a little too, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She goes back to smoothing his hair quietly though, watching his eyes slip shut again. 

 

Lip comes back with the thermometer a beat later, Liam in one arm, says wryly, "He was awake."

 

Fiona nods, “Hi Milkdud,” she says sweetly, smiling at the baby and squeezing one of his little feet before she takes the thermometer. She presses it carefully into Ian’s ear and he cringes, turning his head a bit; she shushes him gently, touching her other hand to his forehead. 

 

"103.7," she reads when it’s finished, sighing a little.

 

"S’not that bad," Ian mumbles.

 

"Not for the ER if we can keep it from getting any higher," Fiona agrees, “Clinic in the morning for _sure_ though.”

 

“Fio - ”

 

“I wasn’t asking, Ian.” She cuts in seriously. 

 

“But you have to work,” he sighs, rubbing at his face. 

 

“I’ll switch to another shift.” She glances at Lip, “Can you pick up my paycheck? During your study hall.” 

 

“Yeah,” Lip nods, rocking Liam, “Do that.” 

 

“Thanks,” she murmurs, “We need to pay the gas bill. This fucking cold can’t be helping.” 

 

Debbie wanders back in then, one of Liam’s juice boxes in one hand and a wet dish-towel in the other. “Like this?” She asks, holding it out to Fiona. 

 

She takes it with a little smile at her sister, “That’s perfect, Debs, thank you.” She folds it carefully and sets it on Ian’s forehead very gently, “Go on back to bed,” she tells the little girl, “You have school tomorrow.” 

 

“But - ”

 

“It’s alright,” she says, giving Debbie’s arm a squeeze, “I’ll take care of Ian, okay?” 

 

“I could help,” Debbie offers, sticking the straw in the juice box and setting it on the nightstand.

 

“S’okay, Debs,” Ian tells her, looking at her through half-opened eyes, “M’just gonna sleep.”

 

She still looks uncertain though and then Lip puts a hand on her shoulder, “Come on - help me put Liam down again?” He asks her. 

 

Debbie sighs a little, “Okay, alright,” she concedes.

 

Lip and Fiona exchange quick glances, small smiles, as he guides Debbie out of the room. 

 

“Think she heard Lip calling for you,” Ian murmurs, “Thought you were up here.” 

 

Fiona nods, turning the towel over to the cooler side, “I went back downstairs, stuff to do...” she smoothes the back of her knuckles along his cheek, “You know you have to lose all the blankets soon, right?” She says softly, taking the juice box and touching the straw to his lips, “Can’t bring your temp down like this.” 

 

He sighs, slipping a hand out of the covers to take the juic, “Not- not now though” he mumbles around the straw, “Cold now...” 

 

She smiles faintly, “Okay, not right now...” She waits until he’s finished the juice box before adding, “Try and get some sleep, okay?” She tugs the blankets up under his chin; it’s the opposite of what he needs, but it’s making him feel better. She smoothes his arm for a little while, letting her gaze drift to Carl for a moment; he’s splayed out on his own bed, sheets tangled, and a foot hanging off the side. 

 

She gets up a beat later, the dishtowel in her hands. 

 

He shifts, “Whe - ”

 

And she touches a hand to his hair, “I’ll be right back.” 

 

She goes to Carl first, untangling the sheets and tucking his foot back under them. 

 

Then crosses into the bathroom, grabs the cup on sink and fills it with water, brining it back with when she returns to the room; she flips the lights off before she settles back on his bed, dipping the towel into the water and then laying it against her own skin until it’s tepid instead of cold. 

 

Ian doesn’t say anything, just turns towards her a little, and does like she’d asked—tries to sleep. 

 

Lip wanders back in, hauls himself up onto his bed without a word. 

 

They stay like that for a while, just quiet; eventually the water isn’t so cold she has to test it on her own skin anymore, eventually Ian’s shaking dies down to shivering and then that slides into occasional tremors. 

 

Fiona takes his temperature again then—103.4; and she blows out slow, relieved breath, reads it aloud to Lip before she carefully starts to peel the blankets off of Ian. 

 

She’s already slid two off of him when he starts to move. “Shhh, okay, okay,” she murmurs gently as he starts to shift, starts making soft, protesting sounds low in his throat. 

 

“You can keep one, okay?” She says softly, not really sure if he was awake or not; she pulls one more blanket off of him, letting it fall to the floor. 

 

And he turns towards her abruptly then, shifting closer to her quickly, almost onto her lap, "Cold," he mumbles, “M’really, really cold.”

 

“I know it feels like that,” she soothes, rubbing at his back, “I know, but you’ll feel better soon, okay? I promise. Soon.” She’d make that happen tomorrow; medicine and clinic and heat. 

 

“Fiona,” he pleads quietly, curling an arm around her knees, hanging on to her, “ _Fi._ ”

 

And she swallows hard, tears burning the back of her eyes. “I'm here, Ian, shh,” she whispers, “You'll be okay. I'm right here.” 

 

She rubs at his back and puts a kiss to his temple and he settles a beat later, quieting; and she touches the damp towel against his cheeks, his neck, and watches the clock.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the morning, Fiona leaves Debbie and Carl to Lip; takes Liam with her when she takes Ian to the clinic. 

 

He’s quiet, freckles standing out vividly on his pale face, fever down to 102.6. Fiona keeps an arm around his shoulders while they wait and when he lets his head dip down against her arm, she presses a kiss to his hair. 

 

Monica had been home last time Ian had been sick. She’d made soup and insisted he eat it in the living room watch cartoons. 

 

It’s bronchitis and they give him a shot of antibiotics and a course to take at home, lots of fluids and lots sleep and no school for a week.

 

Fiona takes him home and sits him on the couch; turns the TV on and tries to make soup. 

 

Ian falls asleep before it’s ready though; then opts for toast when he gets up.

 

 

 

 

 

.tbc.  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm purposefully being vague on the details of Ian's whereabouts just because for this story they're not what's relevant. The fic a grew a chapter (because I have too many Ian and Fiona feelings), so the end should be up for the weekend. 
> 
> This chapter is set post S3 finale. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!! :)

 

 

 

He's thinner when he finally comes home, taller, shoulders a little broader, his hair longer than he's let it be in years and his face pale.

 

Debbie presses her face against his shoulder, hugging him tightly, smearing the fabric of his gray t-shirt with red lipstick and dusty rose eyeshadow. She pulls back to look at with him wet eyes and there's a flicker of surprise on his face when he doesn't have to lower his gaze that much to meet hers; his little sister had grown taller.

 

Carl's hug is next tight and quick, followed by a sincere _knew you weren't dead_. He’s taller too, hair longer, eyes brighter like he's not concussed for once. Ian stares at him for a moment, taking in those changes too.

 

Fiona's hug is longer than Carl's, shorter than Debbie's, and harder than both; fingers digging into his skin, into the back of his hair, tugging his head down towards her and holding him there.

 

They pull apart with an exhale, like they’d both been holding their breaths.

 

She sends him up to shower and tells him they're having baked chicken for dinner, to be down in an hour, says it like he hasn't been gone for over two months.

 

And now that he’s here, Ian feels almost numb; so that’s how he does it, goes upstairs and takes a shower before dinner—like he hasn’t been gone for over two months.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Debbie's changing the sheets on his bed when he comes out of the shower, Carl's lugging things into Lip's empty room; bags slung over his shoulder.

 

Carl doesn't explain and Debbie only gives his arm a squeeze when she moves past him, murmuring _I'm so glad you're back_ sincerely.

 

Ian doesn’t ask, just looks around the room, noting changes; missing Liam in his crib and Lip in his bunk, before he moves to his bed, lies down and stares at the ceiling. Home.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ian listens to all of Debbie’s stories, getting himself caught up on the Gallagher clan—Lip at college and Fiona’s new job, Frank’s disease and Carl taking care of him. He nods along and says the right things, but Debbie feels it, knows it isn’t right.

 

He’s quieter now; almost absent a lot of the time, listening to you and nodding, but not seeing you, not really hearing you at all.

 

Carl doesn’t notice and Lip isn’t around and she doesn’t expect Fiona to see anything at all.

 

She still tells her though, _something’s wrong with Ian_ , still insists, _talk to him_ even though what she means is _help him_.

 

Fiona’s smile is as wide as it’s been for months now when she says, _he’ll talk to me when he’s ready._

 

And Debbie rolls her eyes, grabs her purse and leaves the house, slams the door behind her; at least people _listened_ outside this house.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fiona’s locking the back-door in the kitchen, checking the pilot lights on the stove (Carl still liked to mess with the flame sometimes) when she catches movement in the living room; a shadow by the curtain covering the spot underneath the stairs. It’s quick, but it makes her pause. 

 

She hesitates, not moving towards the living room immediately, because everyone’s been extra touchy lately—growing up; and she gets it, remembers it— but there’s a part of her that doesn doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to deal with it right now, when her life is finally good, finally sliding into _right_. 

 

She approaches after a moment though, crouching down carefully, and peering around the sheet slowly. 

 

It could be anyone of the kids back there, but somehow she’s not surprised when it’s Ian.

 

It’s been two days since he’s been back and they’ve barely spoken. She looks at him and doesn’t know what to do, hasn’t even mentioned his going back to school, doesn’t know where to start with all the things that she needs to say. 

 

She presses her lips together, “Hey,” she says after a beat, arching her eyebrows a little. The space is much too small for him; he’s lying on his back, legs bent, his feet up against the back of the space, “You comfy down here?”

 

Ian doesn’t respond to her, doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge her. There’s something in him that’s cold and furious and been building for awhile now; something he has a tight grip on and doesn’t want her to see. 

 

His silence makes her hands clench a little. “I’m talking to you, Ian,” she says more sharply, “What’re ya doing down here?”

 

He keeps his gaze forward, doesn’t even twitch.

 

And Fiona presses her lips together, anger brushing up against her skin all of a sudden. “ _Ian_ ,” she snaps, when he still doesn’t say anything. She waits for a beat, but when he doesn’t respond she continues, the words slipping out a little more harshly than she means them to, “Go back upstairs, sleep on your own bed.”

 

“My bed smells like Frank.” His voice is low and smooth with barely veiled accusation; the words sliding out of him, that grip loosening. 

 

And she flinches, his tone making her chest clench. It’s right there, in the lump in her throat and the pit in her stomach, so much anger and grief and helplessness. “You weren’t here,” she says; and her voice sounds as tight as her throat suddenly feels.

 

“Right,” Ian agrees with deceptive mildness. He’s quiet for another moment before he continues, “And it’s not like there was an empty room available or anything.”

 

Fiona grits her teeth for a beat, “If you have something to say, Ian,” she says, trying to match his tone, “Then _say it_ ,” and failing. 

 

“Like what, Fiona?” 

 

She shakes her head at him, because he’s mad at her. She can see it in his face and hear it in his voice; he knows she’d let it happen—she purposefully let Frank take his bed and they both _know_ it.

 

She glares at him, her eyes hot all of a sudden as she backs up, straightening to her feet, “No. I’m not doing this with you.” 

 

And he turns his head then, finally; dark eyes fixing on her face, “Doing what? Talking to me,” his tone is shifts from mild right into goading, “Yeah, I got that.” 

 

“Because you been doing a shit ton of talking, right?” She retorts. 

 

“Do you even _give_ a shit?”

 

Her eyes prickle, lips thinning into a straight line; because the words are right there, the ones he wants to hear and she wants say ( _where did you go_ and _why did you leave_ and _talk to me_ ), because she’s always going to give a shit about him—but they stick in her throat.

 

And he takes her silence as an answer, turns his head again, gaze trailing upwards. “Just leave me the fuck alone, Fiona. It’s what you’re good at.” 

 

It stings, _hurts_ , and her eyes fill. “Fuck you,” she says hoarsely, tightly, as the rest slips out, “You _left._ ” 

 

“And no one in this family’s ever done that before,” he counters, his voice low again, still accusing her.

 

Her voice is just as low when she murmurs, “Exactly, Ian.” 

 

That soft, sad tone triggers something in Ian because suddenly he’s _pissed_ at her; not just coldly furious, but flushed with it, thrumming with it. He’s swinging upright, head bent to avoid banging his head and legs folding underneath him, glaring at her, “It’s just fucking different when it’s Lip, right?” 

 

“Excuse me?” She blinks, eyebrows rising. “Lip’s at college.” 

 

And he can’t sit anymore, he slides forward, “Lip _left_ this house last year and all you _did_ was give a fuck,” he says, voice rising, as he pushes to his feet, “And I don’t remember fucking _Frank_ taking up residence in his bed!” 

 

Fiona blinks at him, heart pounding all of a sudden. “It’s not the same thing, Ian.”

 

“Right. Because _Lip_ did it.” 

 

“No. Not because it was Lip.”

 

“No? Please Fiona. _Please_ ,” there’s something thick in his voice all of a sudden, something he hadn’t intended for her to hear, “Or maybe that’s true. You’re right. It’s not the same. You _cared_ then.”

 

“Stop it. Stop,” she needs him to stop, this is breaking her heart, “It wasn’t the same thing.”

 

Something nasty slips into his voice when he says, “Because you give a shit about him.”

 

“Ian - ”

 

“He’s your brother, right? And it’s not like I’ve got the right set of DNA.” 

 

It’s the one thing they don’t ever bring up; they all know for better or worse Ian _is_ their brother and that’s the end of it. But Ian uses it now, lobs it at her because he’s furious and in pain and she hasn’t even _tried_ to help him. 

 

She gapes at him for a beat, tears pooling, before she blinks them back quickly, “ _Fuck_ you, you little shithead,” she snaps at him then, moving forward and grabbing the front of his shirt between her fists, pushing at his chest, “Your fucking DNA is _bullshit_ , you’re my brother. I _give a shit_ , when the fuck have I not? When - ”

 

“Now! Right now!” he shouts it at her, “I’m replaceable, right?” 

 

“No!” She shouts back, ignores the small voice in her head reminding her the kids are upstairs, “That’s not what- that’s not— _fuck_ you, Ian,” she says again, her breath hitching in her chest, “You _left_ us.”

 

“And so did Lip!”

 

“But you did it like Monica does it!” 

 

It rips out of her, loud enough that she knows if Debbie and Carl hadn’t already been listening they would be now; it echoes around the living room, leaves her panting a little, tears filling her eyes again, as the rest of it spills out, the things she hasn’t let herself think about, “You sat with us and ate breakfast and smiled and looked right into our faces and _didn’t even say goodbye_. You walked away without a word to us, without a giving us a reason!” 

 

There’s a sob that’s building in her chest, because Ian’s always been the one most like their mother and still, she hadn’t seen it coming. 

 

“What’s going on?” Debbie’s voice is serious, calm. She’s standing on the steps, looking at them a little worriedly. 

 

Neither of them look away though, they stare at each other, and the words keep spilling out of Fiona, her eyes on Ian’s face, “I _knew_ what Lip was doing, why he was doing it, how he was going to fuck up because he told me, shouted it or showed it with his shitty actions—but I knew. Fight something you know, I can do that—I could chase him down and shout at him and - ” her voice cracks and she stops, takes a shaky breath, “But you just _disappeared._ ” 

 

He stares at her, it’s echoing in his head, _like Monica_ , and he feels like he’s going to be sick all of a sudden.

 

“You left.” It’s an exhale, no breath left, and she finally looks away. 

 

“Stop it, Fiona,” Debbie says firmly. 

 

And Fiona turns around then, her back to them, and presses a hand over her mouth, just walks away. She’s in her bedroom before she lets the tears fall. 

 

The living room is silent when she leaves and Debbie takes one step down towards Ian, “I know you had to leave,” she says softly, “I know you wouldn’t have left if you didn’t have to.” 

 

Ian blows out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face, “Debs…” he breathes, turning around to look at her. He feels disoriented though, Fiona’s words and her tears still shimmering in front of his eyes, “I just- thanks… you should- go back to sleep…” 

 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she points out, then shrugs, “But okay.” She’s taken a few steps up when she pauses, glancing down at him, “See you at breakfast…?” 

 

It’s that thread of a question in those words that drives it home. _Like Monica_. “Yeah,” he says, lifting his gaze to her face, “See you at breakfast,” he promises.

 

 

 

.tbc.

 

 

 


End file.
